Chapter 15 - ISABELLA’S FIRST BIRTHDAY
Z
Isabella turned one on a rainy Thursday.
Vincent planned the party for three months.
I ruined his first four ideas.
“No ballroom.”
“Fine.”
“No ice sculptures.”
He looked personally offended.
“Why?”
“She’s one.”
“People appreciate ice sculptures.”
“Babies don’t.”
“Fine.”
“No two-hundred-person guest list.”
“That was already reduced.”
“From what?”
“Four hundred.”
I stared at him.
“Vincent.”
“One hundred?”
“Thirty.”
“Seventy-five.”
“Forty.”
“Sixty.”
“Forty-five.”
He sighed.
“Done.”
We held it in Salvatore’s backyard beneath a white tent.
Forty-seven people came because Vincent cheated and claimed two cousins were catering staff.
I let it go.
Isabella wore a yellow dress.
She had dark curls now.
My smile.
Vincent’s eyes.
A scar so tiny from her newborn procedure that most people would never notice it.
I always noticed.
It reminded me how close we came to losing everything.
At three that afternoon, Vincent carried her to the cake.
Everyone sang.
Isabella stared suspiciously at the candle.
Then grabbed frosting with both hands.
Vincent laughed.
I stood beside him.
Our shoulders touched.
Neither moved away.
Salvatore watched us from across the table with the subtlety of a man who had spent his life being obeyed.
Later, he cornered me near the garden.
“You are dating my grandson.”
“Occasionally.”
“Seven dinners.”
I narrowed my eyes.
“How do you know?”
“He tells me.”
That shocked me more than anything.
“Vincent talks to you about dates?”
“He is insufferable.”
I smiled.
Salvatore’s expression softened.
“He’s different.”
“Yes.”
“Do you trust him?”
The question erased my smile.
“More than I did.”
“That is not the same answer.”
“No.”
Salvatore nodded.
“Good.”
I frowned.
“Good?”
“Trust should not be given because a man behaves himself for one year.”
He tapped his cane against the grass.
“Let him earn the rest.”
For a Mafia patriarch, Salvatore was becoming strangely reasonable.
Maybe near-death experiences changed entire families.
That evening, after everyone left, Vincent and I cleaned frosting from Isabella’s hair.
She fell asleep between us on the couch.
Vincent looked at her.
“Best year of my life.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“It started with me divorcing you.”
“I said what I said.”
I laughed softly.
Then he became serious.
“Claire.”
I knew that tone.
“What?”
“I sold the house.”
“The estate?”
He nodded.
My mouth opened.
The Moretti estate had been in his family for decades.
“Why?”
“Too big.”
“That never bothered you.”
“It does now.”
He looked around his grandfather’s warm, slightly messy family room.
“I don’t want Isabella growing up in a mausoleum.”
The word hit me.
Museum.
Mausoleum.
The Moretti home had been both.
“Where will you live?”
“I bought a place near you.”
My expression changed.
“Near?”
“Not suspiciously near.”
“How near?”
“Eleven minutes.”
I stared.
“By normal driving?”
He hesitated.
“Thirteen.”
“Vincent.”
“Fourteen.”
I laughed.
He smiled.
“Small yard. Four bedrooms. Kitchen you can actually cook in.”
“I’m not moving there.”
“I didn’t ask you.”
My cheeks warmed.
“Good.”
“Though one day—”
“Careful.”
He stopped.
“Right.”
That was our rhythm now.
Hope.
Boundary.
Respect.
A week after Isabella’s birthday, Sophia accepted a plea agreement.
She received a significant prison sentence.
The final hearing allowed victim statements.
I almost didn’t go.
Then I decided I needed to.
Sophia looked smaller in court.
No designer dress.
No perfect hair.
Just a woman in custody.
When given a chance to speak, she looked at me.
“I’m sorry.”
I felt nothing.
That surprised me.
For so long, I had imagined what I would say.
You ruined my marriage.
You endangered my child.
You almost got me killed.
Instead I said, “I believe you’re sorry about where your choices took you.”
Her face crumpled.
“But I’m not responsible for making you feel better about them.”
Vincent sat behind me.
Silent.
Sophia looked at him.
He did not look back.
Outside the courthouse, reporters shouted questions.
Vincent guided me toward the car, hand hovering near my back but not touching until I nodded.
Inside, the world became quiet.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
And I was.
That chapter of my life had ended.
Sophia was no longer the woman Vincent chose over me.
She was simply Sophia.
A woman who had made terrible choices.
Vincent’s choices belonged to Vincent.
Mine belonged to me.
That distinction had saved me.
That evening, Vincent brought me home.
At the door, he hesitated.
“Can I kiss you?”
For all our history, he had never asked me that question before.
I looked at him.
Then nodded.
“Yes.”
The kiss was gentle.
No ownership.
No demand.
When he pulled away, he did not assume another.
He just smiled.
“Good night, Claire.”
I watched him walk toward the elevator.
And for the first time in years, I wanted him to turn around.
He did.
Our eyes met.
May you like
He smiled again.
So did I.
